Christmas Attempted: The Great Shopping Saga

December 19th.

Okay, so Christmas has been postponed for my family, but there are still a few remaining pockets of resistance.

I will need to buy presents for my housemate, aunty and grandmother.

I spend the morning harrassing my friend Jo, who is more indecisive than a narcoleptic muffin whose father has been murdered by his uncle.

I propose a shopping trip, and we spar via text message. She's American, so I have to wait half an hour each time as my humour spans the metaphorical Atlantic between us. Eventually she agrees to allow to me to drive to her place later and continue coercing her. I've always had a way with women...

I am feeling efficient today. I clean my room briefly (there's wooden floorboards, so that means there's no dirt), and then head into town for a haircut.

I then spend the next two hours searching for a homophobic hairdresser. It's the only way to be safe. I see lots of nervous staff reaching for their phones as I stare at their shop windows, trying to work out if they do men. It seems that there are twenty places for females in town, but nothing for men. Do they assume that we malt or something? I look around for the red and white stripey thing that denotes a strong and no-nonsense barber, but there are none. Eventually, I am forced to shuffle uncertainly into a place called "Hair Biz".

"Do you swing both ways?" I ask, poking my head through the door. The receptionist frowns at me and then shows me to a seat. I am watched by twelve other women, the curlers making their glares all the more severe.

"Would you like some complimentary coffee?" asks the receptionist. I panic and shake my head. I then sit there, looking for the stack of magazines, but there are none. I'm sitting on a leather sofa. What the hell is this? I feel very uncomfortable. A griffon is watching me from the parking lot.

Eventually, a blonde with black circles around her eyes invites me to a chair. It has a ledge in front of it, to put your feet up on. Aaagh! I sit in the chair and she puts some strange leather thing on my shoulders - a bit like those mats from the footwells of cars. Perhaps it is a feminist slur. I feel persecuted.

"So, what do you want?"

I release a small whimper. This is another reason I like homophobic barbers: you can just grunt 'haircut' at them and they work it out for themselves. You're left with something impersonal and to the point - you can't complain. But here I am out of my depth. I babble something about keeping it the same and hope that she doesn't throw me out.

After being reduced to a quivering mess, she reaches for the electric-cutty thing and starts shaving the back of my head. There is a god awful sound, like a moose with epilepsy. The electric-cutty thing has become clogged with my hair.

The fourteen women in the salon turn and look at me. Clearly, these feminine tools were not designed for man-hair. I giggle nervously and shift beneath my car mat.

"So, you all ready for Christmas?" asks the black-eyed blonde.
"Actually, I've cancelled it this year."
"Oh? Why?"
"It's too much hassle to get my family down here and stuff."

The fourteen women in the salon turn and look at me. The blonde sprays something in my eye. I am left staring at a large jar with the word Barbicide written on it. It certainly is a tempting thought....

Finally, I am done. I pay fourteen pounds for the privilege and then take one of their cards. The blonde writes her name on it. I back out of the salon warily, almost tripping over the griffon.

After a rather tasty bowl of spaghetti back home, I head out to pick up Jo. I wait in her lounge as she prepares a hot water bottle for the dog. We attempt conversation (me and Jo, not me and the dog), but I have to repeat everything I say. Maybe I should text her instead - at least I could play Solitaire while I wait for a reply...

After the obligatory bitching about people who aren't in the room, me and Jo head out and drive to Truro. There we meet up with Gina and Maria, and bitch about other people who aren't in the room. I decide to be non-comformist and bitch about the people who are in the room. It doesn't go down well.

After cappucino and carrot cake, we begin the shopping trip.

I had a vision in my head.... of four artists sauntering about, being ironic about stuff and discussing abstract things as we refute materialism in the shopping aisles. I am sadly mistaken. Jo and Gina lead us on a mad scramble, elbowing aside the peasantry as we screech in our hunger for commodities. I try my best to make sarcastic comments, but they are lost in the smoke from Gina's heels. My hopes plummet, my blood pressure soars. We are in Jo's world now - a screaming melee of desire and hedonistic savagery. I hear drums in the distance as people are trampled and small kids swatted aside. Items are snatched from shelves like meat from a carcass, and she spews a warcry of lists and necessities. I scurry to keep up with her, dodging the battered corpses that she leaves in her wake, like a fanboy of Michael Myers, only her cap to distinguish her amongst the walls of flesh.

Finally, I regain consciousness in the middle of Marks and Spencers. I am alone. I take out my cellphone and call my friends. Such is the fate of many in Marks and Spencers. We are like shipwrecked survivors, each calling to our separated loved ones. Some of us are reunited, some are left stranded amongst the clothes rails.

It is Maria who finds me. She has likewise been abandoned. We spend our time staring at a basket that has been left on the floor. Maria kicks it. I make an Al-Quaeda joke. Gina appears behind us and snarls something about health and safety. She puts the basket in the bedroom section with a pair of socks added to it. I take out the pretzels and hide them on a shelf. We achieve a sense of strange fulfillment. Jo scoops us up and drags us to the next shop.

Once more I regain consciousness and order a pint of Carlsberg from the bar. We sit down in a Moroccan-themed lounge and have a post-shopping chinwag. Jo and Gina are surrounded by plastic bags, their voices muffled in the plethora. Me and Maria shiver on the other side of the table.

"So," says Jo, "You wanna meet up tomorrow for some more shopping."
"Possibly." I say, grinning.
"Oh, you've had a haircut!"
"Yeah."